A Gift Between Brothers
by AcneGoddess
Summary: A oneshot of what I speculate to be the origin of Mycroft's well-known and loved umbrella. Written in his point-of-view, it tells of the bond between brothers, and how someone you love will go to great lengths to please you.


**A note from the author: I've returned to the realm of fanfiction, and to kick it off, I've posted this little tidbit on the origin of Mycroft's trusty umbrella. I have also posted this on Wattpad, a website I have found commonly used among my peers at school, under the same alias as the one I have here (AcneGoddess). Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Enjoy!**

When one is living in London, one must remember to have in umbrella on their person at all times, no matter how painfully bright the sun may be, or the lack of clouds in the sky. The weather is very fickle here, and it is almost impossible to tell when the next shower will occur, even with the help of our most trained meteorologists.

My umbrella is very—dare I say—sentimental to me. All my life, I have been taught that attachments to material possessions are next to useless, and in no way is it an advantage. I haven't the slightest clue as to why I still wish to use it; the ends are fraying, the handle is becoming loose, and the thing is simply caked in dirt and grime after enduring over thirty years of assistance, but yet, I cannot rid myself of the wretched old thing.

I believe that a good place to start, if any, is to inform you a bit of my dear brother. There is an eight year difference between the two of us, and we bear little resemblance to each other. While we both sport steel blue eyes and high cheekbones, he is lank and has a full head of curls, whereas I weigh a bit more on the scale and, sadly, am beginning to lose what were once curls as thick as his. Not to mention that he is an insufferable cretin who possesses a God complex, but I digress.

Our family life was… atrocious, to be perfectly blunt about the situation. Although an extremely wealthy businessman, father was almost always livid, and by the time my dear brother was seven years of age, became an alcoholic who took out his daily turmoil on the child while mother, suffering from depression and bipolar disorder, looked on in a tearful silence. Each night, father would shout abuse at my brother whilst striking him across the face. Screams of, "why can't you be more like your brother?" and "why can't you just keep your mouth shut around people?" stick out in my mind.

What would I do during father's fits of rage? There was nothing much I could do. Calling the authorities was out of the question—our riches, opportunities, and overall sanity would fly out the window. I most certainly could not save my brother, for I was a gangly fifteen year old boy, and father was a burly forty year old man. Who would win in that battle? I will leave that up to your deductions.

It was during this time that I oft found myself playing mother, for ours was off in her on realm, on the cusp of insanity. It may be hard to believe, but I assure you that I was contented—almost _delighted_—to fill this role. Before I left for Cambridge, my brother and I had a very close bond that we were absolutely sure could never be severed. I was his guardian, so to speak. Whenever he would tiptoe into my room in the bleak of night, trembling, holding a hand to whatever wound father had inflicted upon him, I would beckon him over to my bed and fix him up, allowing him to crawl in my bed and promising his safety as long as I was around.

I had allowed him to believe this, as well, so when I went off to Uni, the child was heartbroken beyond repair. The inconsolable sobs came so quickly and deeply that the noise did not even appear to be that of a human being, but of some dying animal. I hear his sobs sometimes, when I close my eyes. I find it difficult to sleep anymore.

Returning to the topic of my umbrella; it was a gift. Three months before my departure, I would often catch my little brother scrounging the manor and performing a variety of odd-jobs for our servants in return for petty cash. I had chalked it off to him being curious about the economy, for he was such a curious child. No, curious would be putting it frankly. A prodigy, is what he was, and remains to be. When he wasn't doing experiments in his makeshift bedroom laboratory, he had his nose stuffed inside of a thick edition of _Encyclopedia Americana_.

Imagine my surprise when my birthday came around a week before I left for college, and upon waking, a long, poorly-wrapped gift was waiting for me at the foot of my bed. Of course it had to be from my brother—if any of our servants wrapped gifts such as that, their eyes would be gouged out and displayed as trophies above our mantelpiece.

Seeing that father did not allow him to use the family's bank account, the typical birthday gift from my brother would be a poorly-baked batch of pancakes, a hug, and a kiss on the cheek; it was plenty to keep me satisfied, and had much more meaning behind it than a gold watch or a pinstripe suit.

My interest piqued, I pushed myself up and took hold on the object, running my hands along its length. _Umbrella_, I decided in astonishment as I traced the handle. You will understand my shock when I tell you that a certain umbrella was an item I had wanted since its release that May; the total cost of it coming to over 150 Euros. _This cannot be the umbrella that I want_, I thought to myself. _There is no possible way that he could scrounge together that much money…_

"Aren't you going to open it, My?" came his little voice from the doorway. I looked up at him, and he was simply glowing with joy, despite the battered hand being cradling to his chest. Returning his exuberant smile, I motioned him over to sit next to me, and he did not hesitate to scamper over and under my waiting arm.

With my free hand, I eagerly tore open the paper in a rare display of pleasure that only my brother could bring out and, once the paper had been completely brushed away, stifled a gasp as I held it up. There was no denying that this was the exact umbrella I had been keen on purchasing.

"Do you like it?" he pressed, his eyes boring into me, desperate for my approval. The fact that I sat frozen in my spot, mouth slightly agape, must have thrown him off, yet I could think of no better reaction to this kind of endowment.

"How on _Earth_ did you manage to do this?" I managed to choke out after a prolonged silence, in which his eyes didn't leave my face, and mine did not leave the umbrella in my grasp. All his life, he had been a very determined child, but in this instance, I had realized exactly _how_ determined he really was.

My brother's cheeks tinged the slightest bit pink, and he replied, "I saw it in your browser history when I went on your computer to do some research on different kinds of tobacco ash… I've been saving up money for two months and four days to get it for you." He nodded proudly, as if he had just laid the cure for cancer in my hands instead of an umbrella.

_Two months and four days_, I repeated in my head, my eyes flickering between my gift and my brother. Along with being told that an attachment to an item is not an advantage, I had been told that attachments to actual people are a much worse disadvantage. Then why, pray tell, did this child care enough to spend his hard-earned money on me?

"It is exactly what I wished for," I assured, embracing him to my chest. "Thank-you, Sherlock. I will treasure it always."

As I am a man of my word, the umbrella has been an item that I carry on my person no matter the circumstances. After I left him to pursue a career working for the British government, our seemingly unbreakable tie had severed, and we grew distant, colder towards each other. His anguish turned into pure resentment, and I now hold the title as being his "arch-nemesis". Regardless, I still keep hold of that umbrella.

"Why do you still have that?"

I am snapped out of my thoughtful reverie by his baritone voice, a startling contrast from the squeaky falsetto he had as a boy. It takes me more than a few moments to register that he is speaking in regards to my umbrella, which I am twirling between my fingers.

"Sentiment?" he presses me, leaning forward in his seat with his fingers steepled, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Somewhere between the endless abuse, and getting caught up in the wrong crowd when he served his own time at Cambridge, he had lost all sense of the word "emotion", and I suppose that I have, as well.

I hum in response, crossing my legs and trying my best to avert my gaze elsewhere. His eyes are prodding, and there are many a time that I find them trapping me in a world of painful memories. "It serves its purpose," I inform him. "I see no use in purchasing another."

As usual, he sees right through me, as he does everyone. No one is safe under his prying eyes. "You do not seem to feel that way about your other possessions. That is the fourth watch you've acquired this month alone." His eyes narrow slightly, and he adds, "I don't like to repeat myself, Mycroft. Why. do you. still have. that umbrella?"

Anyone who has met my brother knows as much as this: an argument with Sherlock Holmes will not result in victory. As his kindly roommate John Watson had put it, "he will outlive God trying to have the last word".

"Indeed, it is for a sentimental purpose." Sherlock leans back in his seat, pleased that he has broken me down, and motions for me to continue. "It reminds me of that time when I had a brother."

His stoic expression wavers for a brief second, and had one not been paying close attention to him, would have missed it entirely. I do not wait for a reply; I simply stand, give him a polite nod, and make my way towards the exit.

"Happy birthday, Mycroft."

I pause, and nearly smile, before pulling the door shut. For it is raining, I open my umbrella. It deflects the rain, as umbrellas are wont to do, but suddenly I feel an odd wetness on my cheek. I determine that it is merely a stray drop of rain, and continue down the block to hail a cab. I have a chocolate cake lying in wait back at home, and I don't even have to share it amongst others.


End file.
